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Une philosophie de la solitude
A Philosophy of Solitude
Unknown Binding
First published January 1, 1933
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566 people want to read
About the author
John Cowper Powys
176 books173 followersPowys was born in Shirley, Derbyshire, where his father was vicar. His mother was descended from the poet William Cowper, hence his middle name. His two younger brothers, Llewelyn Powys and Theodore Francis Powys, also became well-known writers. Other brothers and sisters also became prominent in the arts.
John studied at Sherborne School and Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, and became a teacher and lecturer; as lecturer, he worked first in England, then in continental Europe and finally in the USA, where he lived in the years 1904-1934. While in the United States, his work was championed by author Theodore Dreiser. He engaged in public debate with Bertrand Russell and the philosopher and historian Will Durant: he was called for the defence in the first obscenity trial for the James Joyce novel, Ulysses, and was mentioned with approval in the autobiography of US feminist and anarchist, Emma Goldman.
He made his name as a poet and essayist, moving on to produce a series of acclaimed novels distinguished by their uniquely detailed and intensely sensual recreation of time, place and character. They also describe heightened states of awareness resulting from mystic revelation, or from the experience of extreme pleasure or pain. The best known of these distinctive novels are A Glastonbury Romance and Wolf Solent. He also wrote some works of philosophy and literary criticism, including a pioneering tribute to Dorothy Richardson.
Having returned to the UK, he lived in England for a brief time, then moved to Corwen in Wales, where he wrote historical romances (including two set in Wales) and magical fantasies. He later moved to Blaenau Ffestiniog, where he remained until his death in 1963.
John studied at Sherborne School and Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, and became a teacher and lecturer; as lecturer, he worked first in England, then in continental Europe and finally in the USA, where he lived in the years 1904-1934. While in the United States, his work was championed by author Theodore Dreiser. He engaged in public debate with Bertrand Russell and the philosopher and historian Will Durant: he was called for the defence in the first obscenity trial for the James Joyce novel, Ulysses, and was mentioned with approval in the autobiography of US feminist and anarchist, Emma Goldman.
He made his name as a poet and essayist, moving on to produce a series of acclaimed novels distinguished by their uniquely detailed and intensely sensual recreation of time, place and character. They also describe heightened states of awareness resulting from mystic revelation, or from the experience of extreme pleasure or pain. The best known of these distinctive novels are A Glastonbury Romance and Wolf Solent. He also wrote some works of philosophy and literary criticism, including a pioneering tribute to Dorothy Richardson.
Having returned to the UK, he lived in England for a brief time, then moved to Corwen in Wales, where he wrote historical romances (including two set in Wales) and magical fantasies. He later moved to Blaenau Ffestiniog, where he remained until his death in 1963.
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Displaying 1 - 10 of 10 reviews
July 2, 2012
The world is a lonely place.
If anyone can appreciate this fact, I expect that at least Goodreaders can. Reading is a solitary activity; it plunges us into a universe of our own creation. For who can say that the various arrangements of words effected by such-and-such an author yield unto you the same variegated apperceptions that to me are so yielded? No one. Though we understand, at some faith-based level, that some other specific human out there crafted this arrangement of words that we read, and that they have some specific intent to that same human, their effect is subjective in the perfect sense. Unto us we have a prison cell, or a a field draped in snow, or a drunk in the corner of a bar, or an autist bewildered by human emotion, but the witness is only ever the third person singular of one's self.
Tonight I sat upon the tailgate of my truck, my music blaring and a bottle of Portuguese Vinho Verde swigged at regular intervals. Down the road orthogonal to my own, a girl in jean shorts gratuitously short flirted with a fellow high schooler at the door of a tank-like Escalade, the acquisition of which would be well beyond my own means. Her movements were sensuous, his perpetually naive.
Up the sidewalk hobbled a great heifer of a woman, clothed in what appeared to be rags. Darkness and tatters draped her face and form. She followed obediently an arthritic pit-bull whose obesity rivaled only her own.
Each time they passed me, they turned to the opposite side of the street to avoid verbal range. Who is this bizarre man, who dares seat himself upon his own truck, to gaze outward, to study that which the modern Earth has manifested and yet which is to him perpetually alien? His aloneness bewilders; it stupefies, as a pauper in a mall of plenty.
Cowper Powys does not have an answer for this. He can not tell you how to not be alone. He can not tell you how to punctuate the massiveness of human solitude. "A Philosophy of Solitude" is no confabulation of solicitude.
Instead, Powys would ask you this. He would ask you, "can you not find peace within that which is?"
Neither is "A Philosophy of Solitude" escapism. One does not retreat unto solitude because the world has wronged you, or because of your fantasized superiority. From the perspective of being, equality is not contingent, it's a simple reality of matter relations.
No, the philosophy of solitude is a simple meditation upon isness.
How does one deal with the crushing reality of a human being's aloneness in the objective universe? More pertinently, how does one harness the peace that comes from secluding oneself from the chaos of modernity, of socializing, of the forces of conformation?
The answer is reflection upon the simplicity of reality. Sitting quietly. Feeling the breeze of a summer wind: cognizing the breadth of its being, from the smallness of the random movement of an individual molecule up to the swaying of tidal air masses locked in eternal ballet with the stochasm of the sun and the infinity of stars that look upon her with fondness.
Breathe. Acknowledge infinity. Acknowledge finitude. Be alone. Such is being.
If anyone can appreciate this fact, I expect that at least Goodreaders can. Reading is a solitary activity; it plunges us into a universe of our own creation. For who can say that the various arrangements of words effected by such-and-such an author yield unto you the same variegated apperceptions that to me are so yielded? No one. Though we understand, at some faith-based level, that some other specific human out there crafted this arrangement of words that we read, and that they have some specific intent to that same human, their effect is subjective in the perfect sense. Unto us we have a prison cell, or a a field draped in snow, or a drunk in the corner of a bar, or an autist bewildered by human emotion, but the witness is only ever the third person singular of one's self.
Tonight I sat upon the tailgate of my truck, my music blaring and a bottle of Portuguese Vinho Verde swigged at regular intervals. Down the road orthogonal to my own, a girl in jean shorts gratuitously short flirted with a fellow high schooler at the door of a tank-like Escalade, the acquisition of which would be well beyond my own means. Her movements were sensuous, his perpetually naive.
Up the sidewalk hobbled a great heifer of a woman, clothed in what appeared to be rags. Darkness and tatters draped her face and form. She followed obediently an arthritic pit-bull whose obesity rivaled only her own.
Each time they passed me, they turned to the opposite side of the street to avoid verbal range. Who is this bizarre man, who dares seat himself upon his own truck, to gaze outward, to study that which the modern Earth has manifested and yet which is to him perpetually alien? His aloneness bewilders; it stupefies, as a pauper in a mall of plenty.
Cowper Powys does not have an answer for this. He can not tell you how to not be alone. He can not tell you how to punctuate the massiveness of human solitude. "A Philosophy of Solitude" is no confabulation of solicitude.
Instead, Powys would ask you this. He would ask you, "can you not find peace within that which is?"
Neither is "A Philosophy of Solitude" escapism. One does not retreat unto solitude because the world has wronged you, or because of your fantasized superiority. From the perspective of being, equality is not contingent, it's a simple reality of matter relations.
No, the philosophy of solitude is a simple meditation upon isness.
How does one deal with the crushing reality of a human being's aloneness in the objective universe? More pertinently, how does one harness the peace that comes from secluding oneself from the chaos of modernity, of socializing, of the forces of conformation?
The answer is reflection upon the simplicity of reality. Sitting quietly. Feeling the breeze of a summer wind: cognizing the breadth of its being, from the smallness of the random movement of an individual molecule up to the swaying of tidal air masses locked in eternal ballet with the stochasm of the sun and the infinity of stars that look upon her with fondness.
Breathe. Acknowledge infinity. Acknowledge finitude. Be alone. Such is being.
October 27, 2019
John Cowper Powys' (JCP) non-fiction is of considerable interest, not only for understanding his novels but also on a personal basis. In "Solitude" he outlines his philosophy of "Elementalism" in considerable detail, which is largely about the happiness that can be obtained through solitude and connection with our remarkable and beautiful physical world.
Compared to his earlier non-fiction, JCP has definitely changed and narrowed his focus, and much of the disturbed mind evidenced in his previous "Sensuality" is no longer apparent. The book is sober, fairly easy to read, and while not a comprehensive attempt at a philosophy at least would have a considerable amount of meaning to a reader, even one today. Much of it is quotable, and it is fairly consistent throughout, although a bit of absurdity creeps in from time to time.
In terms of his novels, this is essentially the philosophy of John Crow in JCP's novel "A Glastonbury Romance", and the book has a great deal of importance for understanding the "elemental" focus of JCP's following novel "Weymouth Sands", which was apparently written at the same time as "Solitude". JCP's novels as he said himself are in part a way for him to promote his philosophy, so for a serious student of these novels reading the related non-fiction is important.
Otherwise, on a personal level, I can relate to this work, and I suppose others could as well. He strongly promotes walking as an exercise to make one happy, and given that I prefer to walk 25 minutes to my train every morning rather than drive and park, I suppose I can appreciate this particular sentiment. For those who can't stand crowds, are happy or happiest while alone sitting on their back porch admiring the twilight, this book is for you. Personally I find the complexity of human interaction something I need and enjoy as much as solitary walks, but there should be a place for both in one's life. Those who spend their time entirely in society could particularly benefit from this work, as I think we all need time to reflect and enjoy our world.
Compared to his earlier non-fiction, JCP has definitely changed and narrowed his focus, and much of the disturbed mind evidenced in his previous "Sensuality" is no longer apparent. The book is sober, fairly easy to read, and while not a comprehensive attempt at a philosophy at least would have a considerable amount of meaning to a reader, even one today. Much of it is quotable, and it is fairly consistent throughout, although a bit of absurdity creeps in from time to time.
In terms of his novels, this is essentially the philosophy of John Crow in JCP's novel "A Glastonbury Romance", and the book has a great deal of importance for understanding the "elemental" focus of JCP's following novel "Weymouth Sands", which was apparently written at the same time as "Solitude". JCP's novels as he said himself are in part a way for him to promote his philosophy, so for a serious student of these novels reading the related non-fiction is important.
Otherwise, on a personal level, I can relate to this work, and I suppose others could as well. He strongly promotes walking as an exercise to make one happy, and given that I prefer to walk 25 minutes to my train every morning rather than drive and park, I suppose I can appreciate this particular sentiment. For those who can't stand crowds, are happy or happiest while alone sitting on their back porch admiring the twilight, this book is for you. Personally I find the complexity of human interaction something I need and enjoy as much as solitary walks, but there should be a place for both in one's life. Those who spend their time entirely in society could particularly benefit from this work, as I think we all need time to reflect and enjoy our world.
April 6, 2023
A better book than I expected or remembered since last I skimmed it. Powys’s Elementalism is certainly idiosyncratic (I cannot define it but I can appreciate its pagan flavor and focus on the present material world, whatever “matter” really is) but there was much here in the way of insight and practical advice that I found helpful as someone who lives in a modern world that seems to have amplified all the worst aspects of the “modern world” of Powys’s era. More than being a strangely practical book it contains dozens of beautiful and quotable passages to ponder and come back to. A helpful read for those interested in the philosophical underpinnings of Powys’s novels as well.
August 11, 2011
The elementalism of Powys is more of a powerful opinion expressed through metaphor than a systematic philosophy expressed through logical argumentation. This does not detract at all from the work. The language is visceral:[return][return]"We need, just now, a certain fierce, bitter, indignant philosophy, a philosophy that is neither too easy-going towards the gods for the sort of world they have made, nor towards ourselves for the folly with which we make the bad the worse. We need to put into our cosmic philosophy a little of the black bile that we put into our human relations. We need a certain bone to bone austerity in our mental vision combined with a new emphasis on the power of the will and the magic of the will"[return][return]This is the author's response to an increasingly crowd-crazed megalomania he sees as being imposed on nature:[return][return]"Instead of pausing in our multifarious activities, instead of putting aside our laborious quests, we are being perpetually fooled into thinking that happiness is to be reached in the same way as pleasure is, by the possession of something."[return][return]I read a part of this on a plane while passing through two thunderstorms and experiencing very high turbulence and it kept my attention. This largely undiscovered book and author will be relevant for some time to come.
January 13, 2025
‘L’heure est venue où un nombre considérable d’hommes et de femmes de tous pays se révolteront - secrètement, passionnément, obstinément - contre les opinions grégaires qui ont détourné le cœur de l’homme de son monde légitime et l’ont rendu esclave de l’inessentiel.’
October 27, 2024
"All noble instincts of our race are born in solitude and suckled by silence."
This is the best book I've read all year and I wonder whether I'll have the courage to return this to the library.
Imagine an Emersonian essay written by Dostoevksy with Spengler's world-view. That is what this book is.
"How could the great Nietzsche not see, how can Spengler not see, that this Will to Power of theirs is after all a poor, base, ignoble thing? They are blinded -these noble poets- by a childish megalomania!"
This is the best book I've read all year and I wonder whether I'll have the courage to return this to the library.
Imagine an Emersonian essay written by Dostoevksy with Spengler's world-view. That is what this book is.
"How could the great Nietzsche not see, how can Spengler not see, that this Will to Power of theirs is after all a poor, base, ignoble thing? They are blinded -these noble poets- by a childish megalomania!"
June 9, 2023
Beaucoup de phrases alambiquées, certes les idées prennent du temps à se développer mais bon j'ai trouvé qu'on se perdait dans le propos assez souvent.
June 27, 2023
a Love letter to Elementalism
October 9, 2018
"So far in the wrong direction have the crowd-values moved, that if you told an average person that the purpose of your life was a communion between your consciouseness and the earth's conciousness, he would think you had simply gone made."
The quote pasted here (above), I think, does a good job at summarizing the books's central thesis. Which is that to be happy, one has to leave society, not physically, one can still be a factory laborer, a doctor, or a professor, but psychically. Society's unfettered wants and social follies have destroyed human happiness. — To be truly happy one has to be in connection with nature, with the inane matter surrounding him; one has to admire life, the fact that he is a concious individual surrounded by unconscious matter, nonpareiled by anyone or anything, a peculiarity of construction.
But I do have an issue with this book is structured. In my judgement, Powys being an apologist of Taoist philosophy could have written a much more powerful, memorable, and compelling reading, had he written a more succinct work. One in which the author's ideas and arguments would be more readily described to readers. Instead I feel that many of the author's thoughts and reasonings were many times repeated throughout this masterful writing. Even though the book is not long, because of the subject matter being so particular, I feel it could be much shorter in size. And, had it been shorter it would probably be much more well-regarded through time. Because many of the ideas extoled on this work, are indeed very peculiar; there are few readily found matches in philosophy to Powys' writing.
And lastly, there are thing with which I personally can't agree with the author, and I think weren't enough well argued for me to be able to give sufficient credence to the author's opinion. I found, for instance, that (…)
(To be continued; today or tomorrow)
The quote pasted here (above), I think, does a good job at summarizing the books's central thesis. Which is that to be happy, one has to leave society, not physically, one can still be a factory laborer, a doctor, or a professor, but psychically. Society's unfettered wants and social follies have destroyed human happiness. — To be truly happy one has to be in connection with nature, with the inane matter surrounding him; one has to admire life, the fact that he is a concious individual surrounded by unconscious matter, nonpareiled by anyone or anything, a peculiarity of construction.
But I do have an issue with this book is structured. In my judgement, Powys being an apologist of Taoist philosophy could have written a much more powerful, memorable, and compelling reading, had he written a more succinct work. One in which the author's ideas and arguments would be more readily described to readers. Instead I feel that many of the author's thoughts and reasonings were many times repeated throughout this masterful writing. Even though the book is not long, because of the subject matter being so particular, I feel it could be much shorter in size. And, had it been shorter it would probably be much more well-regarded through time. Because many of the ideas extoled on this work, are indeed very peculiar; there are few readily found matches in philosophy to Powys' writing.
And lastly, there are thing with which I personally can't agree with the author, and I think weren't enough well argued for me to be able to give sufficient credence to the author's opinion. I found, for instance, that (…)
(To be continued; today or tomorrow)
January 1, 2015
Une philosophie de la solitude
by John Cowper Powys
by John Cowper Powys
Displaying 1 - 10 of 10 reviews